Chapter 8 #2
The way he says my name makes something twist low in my stomach. I snatch the helmet from his hands, shove it over my head. It smells like him, his cologne.
He swings onto the bike, and it rumbles to life beneath him.
I stand there like an idiot.
“Get on,” he says over the engine.
I hesitate. Every instinct I have screams that getting on this bike, with this man, is stupid dangerous.
But Gabriel’s threat flashes.
I swing my leg over and settle behind him. The seat forces me close—too close. My thighs press against his, and there’s nowhere to put my hands except—
He reaches back, grabs my wrists, and pulls my arms around his waist.
“Hold on,” he says.
Then he twists the throttle, and the world disappears.
The bike surges forward, and I grip him tighter without thinking. The city blurs past—lights, streets, people. Everything moving too fast to process.
His body is solid under my hands. Warm. I can feel the muscles in his abdomen shift as he leans into turns, feel the steady rhythm of his breathing.
The scent from the helmet surrounds me now. Leather. Smoke. Him.
It’s nauseating.
We weave through traffic, cut down side streets I don’t recognize. He drives like he owns the road—aggressive, precise, like he’s daring anyone to get in his way.
Finally, he slows.
We pull into an underground parking garage. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in sickly yellow.
He kills the engine.
The silence is deafening.
I let go of him, climb off the bike on shaky legs. Pull off the helmet and hand it back.
“Where are we?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just swings off the bike and starts walking toward a metal door in the corner.
Fuck, he’s going to kill me.
I take in a breath and follow.
He pulls out a key, unlocks the door, and gestures for me to go first.
“Ladies first?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Something like that.”
I step through.
The stairwell is narrow, concrete, smells like mildew and old cigarettes. My footsteps echo as I climb.
He’s right behind me. Close enough that I feel his presence like heat against my back.
We reach a door marked with peeling numbers—304.
He reaches around me, unlocks it, and pushes it open.
“After you.”
I step inside.
The apartment is... not what I expected.
Clean. Minimalist. Exposed brick walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A kitchen that looks like it’s never been used. A couch that probably costs more than my rent.
“This is your place?” I ask.
“One of them.”
One of them… must be fucking nice.
He closes the door behind us, locks it. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home makes my pulse spike.
“Why am I here?” I turn to face him.
He shrugs off his jacket, tosses it over a chair. The ink on his arms is fully visible now; intricate some colorful, covering every inch of skin from wrist to shoulder. I catch glimpses of script, symbols, things I don’t understand.
“You patched me up,” he says. “I owe you.”
“You got me a job. We’re even.”
“No.” He moves closer. Not threatening. Just... deliberate. “We’re not.”
“Then what do you want?”
He stops inches away. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“It’s not what I want. It’s what you want,” he says low.
My heart thrums.
He knows.
Fuck he knows.
He steps back and my mind goes blank.
He brought me here to murder me because he knows.
I look down, I’m standing on a large rug, of course. He could shoot me here, roll up my body, easy clean up.
Probably plastic or a tarp underneath.
I look up and he’s—
Shirtless?
Clean gauze still over the wounds I patched up
“What are you doing?”
My voice comes out low, unsteady. Like the air’s too thick to breathe.
“Giving you what you want.” He drops his shirt onto the couch behind him like it’s nothing. “Me.”
“I don’t want you,” I say.
My voice sounds strange in the stillness of his apartment—too loud, too thin, like it doesn’t belong to me. Like maybe if I say it again, it’ll become more true.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “You sure about that?”
Before I can answer, he steps closer.
My pulse stutters. I take a step back.
He follows.
I reach for the strap of my backpack like it’s armor, but he grabs it, lifts it clean off me like it weighs nothing, and lets it drop to the floor.
“Maksim,” I warn, trying to keep my voice steady.
He brushes his knuckles across my cheek. The touch is light. Gentle, almost. But it makes my stomach turn.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “You want me that bad?”
“No.” I pull back. “I don’t want you.”
But he’s already moving again, herding me toward the wall with lazy, predatory steps. I try to sidestep, but he cuts me off. The back of my thighs hit the exposed brick.
I swing.
He catches my wrist mid-air, slams it above my head. Then the other. His body presses into mine, caging me in. The brick is cold against my back. He’s burning at my front.
“You fight like you’ve done it before.”
“Let me go.”
“Don’t want to.”
He dips his head, nose skimming my jaw. I turn away, but he releases a wrist to grab my chin and forces me back to him.
“Maksim—” I start.
His lips ghost my neck, “You smell like marshmallows, do you know that?”
I twist, I punch with my free hand.
He grunts. I shove my knee up, but he blocks it, laughing low in his throat.
“You think I haven’t been hit harder?” he growls. “You’ll have to do better than that, Beda.”
He reaches down. Unbuttons my jeans.
I freeze. I panic.
No.
No no no.
“Don’t,” I breathe.
He doesn’t stop. His fingers tug the waistband down an inch. Two.
My vision goes white.
I lurch forward with everything I’ve got, slam both hands into his chest, shove with all the strength I’ve buried for years—
He stumbles back.
Breathless.
Eyes wild.
And I scream at him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?! I said no!”
His chest rises and falls. He stares at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. A game that didn’t play fair.
He nods once.
“Yeah,” he says. “For now.”
“No,” I snap. “For good. I’m not fucking you.”
I drag up my jeans and button them.
His eyebrows lift, like I just said something confusing. “Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
He shrugs again. In that infuriating, casual way.
He throws himself onto the couch, arms draping over the back. “Is it because you wear boy underwear?”
I blink. “What?”
He points at me. Like I’m a joke. “I saw them. You’re wearing briefs, not panties. Walking around in your ex’s shit. Or is it laundry day?”
I stare at him. Heat floods my face—humiliation, fury, something I can’t name.
“They’re comfortable,” I snap. “And cheaper. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying me like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s seen all week. “You really don’t want to fuck me?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“Not even a fraction of a little.”
He sits back, processing this. Like the concept is foreign. Like women don’t tell him no.
They probably don’t.
I back toward the door. “I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not.”
“Watch me.”
I grab my backpack, yank it over my shoulder, and reach for the deadbolt.
His hand slams against the door above my head, holding it shut.
“You’re not leaving until I say you can,” he says, voice low in my ear.
I spin to face him, pressing my back against the door. “Get. Off.”
“Make me.”
We’re inches apart. His breath fans across my face—warm, steady. His eyes are locked on mine, and there’s something in them I can’t read. Something dangerous.
“It’s raining, Beda. Stay.”
“No.”
He steps back.
I don’t wait for him to change his mind.
My hand finds the deadbolt, twists it open. The click echoes in the silence between us. I yank the door open.
The hallway is cold after the warmth of his apartment. I move fast, taking the stairs two at a time, my boots echoing off concrete walls. My heart pounds so hard I feel it in my throat, taste it on my tongue.
Behind me, I hear his door close.
He’s not following.
Good.
I burst out into the parking garage when I realize I don’t have my car and that bastard was right it is raining.
I let out a cruel laugh. I have to walk miles home through Bratva territory.
My phone buzzes.
Gabriel
Where are you?
I hesitate answering.
Stay if you’re with him. I want my intel.
I text back
I’m not with him.
Your location says otherwise.
What the hell?
I turn it off and exhale.
No. Fuck Gabriel. I begin my walk out of the parking garage and into the rain. The water practically drowning me with pressure.
I stop.
I have two terrible options.
Walk home in this rain and deal with Gabriel later or walk back and stay at Maksim Korsakov’s.
Goddamn it.